Although I preferred his more recent novel El material humanofor at least a couple of reasons, I'd still recommend this 116-page novella by Rodrigo Rey Rosa to anyone looking for a good punch in the mouth. The plot is simple but daring. Juan Luis Luna, the son of a wealthy Guatemalan businessman, is kidnapped by a gang of violent thugs with odd nicknames like Bunny, Charlemagne, the Sephardi, and El Horrible. When his father doesn't cough up the ransom soon enough, Juan Luis first loses the little toe off his left foot and then has the entire foot amputated by the kidnappers as a warning that they mean business. Ransomed at the last minute, the kidnapping victim faces up to a new relationship with his father and a life full of bitter memories regarding what went wrong in the abandoned gas station. Years later, the title "cripple" runs into one of his kidnappers by sheer chance in a restaurant in Morocco. Rattled by the surprise encounter and also tired of his life as a boho drifter abroad, Juan Luis returns to Guatemala to confront the violence in his past. Will he now wreak vengeance on the kidnappers who went unpunished? In spite of the fact that Juan Luis' initial run-in with his ex-kidnapper seemed a little farfetched, I really liked this book. While I'm tempted to call it a Guatemalan Reservoir Dogs, that would only explain half the story and wouldn't say anything at all about its psychological aspects. All in all, a very visceral read and one in which Rey Rosa's spare, unadorned prose makes the more lurid aspects of the tale uncomfortably believable. (http://www.ndpublishing.com/)

[Most happy and fortunate were the days when the bold knight Don Quixote of La Mancha sallied forth into the world, since, because of his honorable resolve to resuscitate and return to the world the lost and dying order of knight errantry, we can now enjoy in our own time, which is so in need of joyful entertainment, not only the sweetness of his true history, but also the stories and episodes that appear in it and are, in some ways, no less agreeable and artful and true than the history itself, which, following its tortuous, winding, and meandering thread, recounts that as the priest was preparing to console Cardenio, he was prevented from doing so by a voice that reached his ears and, in melancholy accents, said... (I, XXVIII, 227, in Edith Grossman's translation)]

No tengo mucho más que decir aparte de la opinión que la historia de Cardenio en el capítulo XXVII es uno de los episodios más aburridos en toda la novela. La historia de Dorotea, la admiradora de libros de caballerías desfrazada como la hermosa princesa Micomicona en el capítulo XXX, es más chistosa, y claramente esta parte de la novela funciona como un preesteno de la novela intercalada que se verá en la próxima parte. [I don't have much to add other than the opinion that Cardenio's story in Chapter XXVII is one of the most boring episodes in the entire novel. The story about Dorotea, the fan of chivalry books disguised as the beautiful Princess Micomicona in Chapter 30, is much funnier, and clearly this part of the novel functions as a preview of the intercalated novel that will be seen in the next part.]

(Purgatorio XXX, 13-21, pp. 292-293, in the bilingual original and as translated by W.S. Merwin)

Although I think almost everybody in our readalong group agreed that the Inferno made for far more scintillating reading than the Purgatorio, I'm not sure that the writing really explains the difference in the reception of the two works. In fact, I think that the second canticle might be even better-written than the first in some ways. In the snippet above, for example, we see a "typical" example of Dante's brilliance at work. Setting up the moving scene where Virgil departs from the poem, Dante breaks from his Florentine Italian to boldly mix in some Latin verse. While Dante does this sort of thing throughout the poem with astonishing regularity and fluidity, W.S. Merwin explains that line 21 ("Oh with full hands give lillies") is "a line freighted with allusions. It is translated from a famous line of elegy and farewell from Virgil's Aeneid (book 6, 967-886 [sic]), Manibus, oh, date lilia plenis,and serves as both a welcome from the angels and a farewell to Virgil" (Purgatorio, notes to Canto XXX, 356). In other words, this is a homage to Virgil the character written as a "cut and paste" from Virgil the poet's own words from over a thousand years before. I find that pretty spectacular on Dante's part.

Elsewhere, Dante highlights the ambitiously interactive nature of his poetry via his choice of other languages and the use of featured poets as "characters" within his narrative. In Canto VI, Dante and Virgil meet Sordello, "one of the Italian poets who wrote in Provençal, continuing the tradition and conventions of the troubadours" in the words of Merwin's footnote (337). In Canto XXI, the Roman poet Statius, born long after Virgil's death in the real world, praises the genius of the Aeneid to Virgil and Dante before realizing he's actually in the Mantuan's presence in the poetic sphere. A discussion about poetry naturally ensues. In Canto XXIV, a soul that Dante meets in Purgatory questions him on an early poem Dante had written and then mentions the "dolce stil novo" that he is hearing (XXIV, 57, pp. 234-235). And finally in Canto XXVI, the 12th-century troubadour Arnaut Daniel responds to a question posed to him in Italian with eight lines of "dialogue" rendered in the Old Occitan of his day. While Dante never connects the dots quite so heretically himself, it's tempting to view this elevation of poets, poetry, and language as something akin to a secular religion on the poet's part. At least, it is for me anyway.

In any event, you don't have to be a language geek or a heretic to appreciate these sorts of things--nor need you know Latin or Occitan to appreciate Dante's Italian in Merwin's English! But the level of precision in the Purgatorio's poetry is often amazing. To cite just one more example, let's return to Canto XXX and the specific verses that deal with Virgil's departure (XXX, 43-57, pp. 294-295, with the English translation again by W.S. Merwin):

volsimi a la sinistra col respitto

col quale il fantolin corre a la mamma

quando ha paura o quando elli è afflitto,

per dicere a Virgilio: "Men che dramma

di sangue m'è rimaso che non tremi:

conosco i segni de l'antica fiamma."

Ma Virgilio n'avea lasciatti scemi

di sé, Virgilio dolcissimo patre,

Virgilio a cui per mia salute die'mi:

né quantunque perdeo l'antica matre,

valse a le guance nette di rugiada

che, lagrimando, non tornasser atre.

"Dante, perché Virgilio se ne vada,

non pianger anco, non piangere ancora;

che pianger to conven per altra spada."

[I turned to the left with the confidence that

a little child shows, running to its mother

when something has frightened it or troubled it,

to say to Virgil, "Not even one drop

of blood is left in me that is not trembling;

I recognize the signs of the old burning."

But Virgil had left us, he was no longer there

among us, Virgil, most tender father,

Virgil to whom I gave myself to save me,

nor did all that our ancient parent

had lost have any power to prevent

my dew-washed cheeks from running dark with tears.

"Dante, because Virgil leaves you, do

not weep yet, do not weep even yet, for you

still have another sword you must weep for."]

Taken out of context like this, it may be difficult for someone who hasn't experienced the poem to understand how touching a farewell this is at this late stage in Purgatorio. But pay attention to the shift in perspective of the speakers and the repetition of the name Virgil to see how Dante's poetic gifts enhance the emotion of the moment. With a post on Paradiso upcoming next weekend, I'll let Merwin have the last word here because the way he explains the Canto XXX farewell is rather mindblowing to me:

"The farewell to Virgil and his disappearance is a moment of great symbolic and personal significance. It is formalized by numerological designs: Virgil is named five times, first once, then three times in one tercet, then again once. The echo, several commentators have pointed out, recalls in turn lines of Virgil's in Georgic IV, 525-527, where Orpheus' voice, calling the lost Eurydice, is echoed down the stream" (notes to canto XXX, 356).

With apologies both for the long quote and for the sudden interruption of the Don Quixote readalong, I'd like to send a shout-out to any unicorn-loving lurkers out there with this quick post on Dante and the ladies. Whatever you make of the real life Dante's lifelong crush on Beatrice dei Portinari, his choice of her as a heavenly symbol throughout The Divine Comedy is just fascinating to me in terms of the psychology at play in the poem. In the excerpt above, for example, you'll note that Dante trots out that old "Eve is the mother of sin" trope that was already hoary even in the poet's day and age. It's not mean by medieval standards and it's definitely not anywhere near as weird as Bernard of Clairvaux's fetishistic obsession with the Virgin Mary's breast milk or anything along those lines, but then again it's not the kind of attitude you might expect from a man who's chosen to elevate a secular woman to the status of idealized spiritual heroine of his poem. Not having started Paradiso until today and not having done as much secondary reading on the Commedia as a whole as I would have liked anyway, I'm not really sure what role Beatrice will play as the poet and the muse make their platonic way through the third canticle's heavens. I'd like to think that Dante gives us a hint in the final line of the excerpt above--i.e. that Beatrice's status as an idealized woman might provide some sort of a link between the "secular" inspiration necessary for creating verse and the "religious" raptures that seem to dominate the Divine Comedy's themes--but that's only guesswork and potentially really off the mark guesswork at that. In the meantime, more on Purgatorio later or maybe not (covering all my bases with the full knowledge that laziness sometimes interferes with my psychic predictive powers).

P.S. As much as Beatrice interests me for what she tells us about Dante's conflicted attitudes towards women, she's not actually all that happening on her own merits. In contrast, Juan Ruiz' Trotaconventos from the Libro de buen amor and Chaucer's Wife of Bath from the Canterbury Tales are two deliciously complex female characters that would absolutely wipe the floor with Beatrice for anyone looking at approaching any of these three 14th-century classics from a gender studies perspective. Not sure if the fact that Trotaconventos and the Wife of Bath would have been more likely to end up in Inferno than Purgatorio has anything to do with it, but you get the picture.

Chapter 21 of Don Quixote begins with a sort of "mistaken identity": Don Quixote confuses the shaving basin of a traveling barber for the famous "helmet of Mambrino," and seizes it from the barber as war booty. Chapter 25 ends with a scene that emphasizes another type of identity confusion: Don Quixote claims to be so madly in love with Dulcinea that he actually feigns madness in conscious imitation of Amadís of Gaul's own lovesick ways! In between, there's another classic blunder on display: the "adventure of the galley slaves," where the so-called Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance (the newish nickname for DQ that Sancho came up with) frees a bunch of prisoners being marched across Spain by the king's soldiers. Given all these images of "disorder," let's stop here for a moment to take a look at how craftily Cervantes unveils a full bag of tricks regarding the portrayal of the narrator. First of all, there's the running joke having to do with Don Quixote's belief that the author of his history would have to be a "wise man" or sage (I, XXI, 161). A little obvious perhaps but all in good fun. More interestingly, there's that whole bit about the multiple narrators again. As we read at one point:

It is recounted by Cide Hamete Benengeli, the Arabic and Manchegan author, in this most serious, high-sounding, detailed, sweet, and inventive history, that following the conversation between the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha and Sancho Panza, his squire, which is referred to at the end of chapter XXI, Don Quixote looked up and saw coming toward him on the same road he was traveling approximately twelve men on foot, strung together by their necks, like beads on a great iron chain, and all of them wearing manacles (I, XXII, 163 [translated by Edith Grossman]).

Although this isn't the first time that "Cervantes," or the second narrator, has been guilty of being a smart aleck regarding Cide Hamete Benengeli, or the first narrator, take note of how he refers to the history as an "inventive" one here. Not to beat up on Grossman again but in the original Spanish, Cervantes actually refers to this as an imaginada historia: an imagined or an invented history or story. What a cheeky guy! Of course, the best thing of all about all this fictitious narrator stuff is that it extends to other "narrators" within the script. In fact, one of my favorite characters in the entire novel is the prisoner Ginés de Pasamonte, who spends his free time writing an extremely detailed autobiography that he says is so good "that it's too bad for Lazarillo de Tormes and all the other books of that genre that have been or will be written." Why is it so good? "What I can tell your grace is that it deals with truths, and they are truths so appealing and entertaining that no lies can equal them" (I, XXII, 169). As if the links between the autobiography of this fictional character, the picaresque literature of Lazarillo de Tormes and its ilk, and Don Quixote's own imagined history weren't rich enough in themselves, Cervantes brings about a stellar conclusion to this workout on truth and lies by having Don Quixote ask Ginés if his The Life of Ginés de Pasamonte is finished yet. "How can it be finished," Ginés replies, "if my life isn't finished yet?" Good question!

Without wanting to generalize too much about the shift in emphasis, let's say that chapters 16-20 in Don Quixote are characterized more by their focus on storytelling and less by the earlier attention to speechmaking. What does it all matter? For me, one answer has to do with the extraordinarily interesting way in which Cervantes' humor is intricately connected with his own storytelling efforts here. Of the many mishaps that Don Quixote and Sancho Panza suffer in these chapters, for example, the "adventure of the fulling hammers" in chapter 20 is unique for its status as an adventure where the aural and not the visual predominates. Relieved to learn that the hellish noise that sparked such fear in him overnight was only of natural origin, Sancho is moved to make fun of his master's heroism--which causes Don Quixote to be overcome with anger at his squire. In fact, DQ is so angry that he adds the following: "I do not deny...that what happened to us is deserving of laughter, but it does not deserve to be told, for not all persons are wise enough to put things in their proper place" (I, 20, 151 [trans. by Edith Grossman]). Although the characters' reactions are sufficiently "lifelike" for my tastes, I love how the narrator foreshadows the irony of the joke with the little description at the beginning of the chapter: "On the never heard nor seen adventure which was ever brought to an end with less danger by any famous knight in the world as that brought to an end by the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha" [note: this is my admittedly awkward but more or less literal translation containing Cervantes' fine play on words; Grossman's infinitely smoother translation, which to my mind unforgivably omits the pun, reads: "Regarding the most incomparable and singular adventure ever concluded with less danger by a famous knight, and which was concluded by the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha" (I, 20, 141)]. Smack in the middle of a handful of chapters that provoke laugh out loud moments galore with stories as visual as Sancho being unwillingly tossed up and down on a blanket for sport (see the postcard above), Don Quixote as storyteller of an imaginary battle only he can see, and--last but not least--a reciprocal vomit fest between knight errant and squire, this chapter summary, foreshadowing what DQ will call an adventure that "does not deserve to be told," is just kind of awesome, is it not? Next: DQ, chapters 21-25, with more thoughts on the narrator of the novel.

I went in. I set my suitcase on the ground and then I saw Death, the bitch with her ineffable little smile, settled down on the first step of the staircase. She had returned. If it were only for me... Come on! She respects me, your humble servant. She sees me and she moves aside, like when the Haitians used to bump into Duvalier on the streets.

"I'm not going upstairs, señora, I didn't come to see her. And like the Loca, I try not to go up or down staircases and to keep my feet on level ground. So until I come back, take care of yourself, and by the way, keep an eye on my suitcase because in this country of thieves they'll steal the shorts off a guy and the sickle from Death when least expected."

(El desbarrancadero, 12-13, my translation)

I don't think that I could read more than one or two books a year by Fernando Vallejo. The author, born in Colombia and now living in Mexico, is too cynical, too bitter, and too hyperbolic to read with any frequency. That being said, wow, what a master of prose! He's so cynical, so bitter, and so hyperbolic that he makes me laugh out loud extremely frequently. Like a bastard child of Lautréamont or something like that. In any event, I decided to read El desbarrancadero [The Precipice, not yet available in an English translation) after 1994's La Virgen de los Sicarios [Our Lady of the Assassins] turned out to be one of my favorite books read last year. I understand that this more recent work, winner of the 2003 Rómulo Gallegos Prize, is an autobiographical novel of sorts. Although I don't know if the boundary between the fiction and the reality is marked out all that clearly, the "novel" has to do with the death of Vallejo's brother Darío from AIDS some years back (note: Darío, on the left, and Fernando are the two kids on the cover photo above). It's also about death in much more general terms. In addition, it offers up a family portrait of a Colombian household that could have been the world champions of dysfunctional families. In spite of the depressing subject matter, I liked this book quite a lot. While Vallejo (writing in first person as the narrator) continues to stand out as an all-star of insults and diatribes, I think I was moved less by the sarcasm and more by the fact that his affection for his brother and his rage at his helplessness seemed genuine here. In addition to this feeling of authenticity, I was also impressed by the novelist's daring in his choice of Death as a character. Although I suspect that Vallejo's way too vitriolic to appeal to most readers of this blog, I'd still say that this memento mori of his deserves your full consideration should it ever be translated. Without a doubt, recommended. (http://www.alfaguara.com.ar/)

Asintió con la cabeza y no dijo más....*Then I unexpectedly returned to my room in that faraway house or insane asylum in the barrio of Laureles and saw my Lady Death one more time, observing me with lewd curiosity from the ceiling stained by the leakage from the rain."I love you," she told me."Really, mamita?" I asked her.She nodded yes and didn't say anything more...

After Don Quixote had satisfied his stomach, he picked up a handful of acorns, and, regarding them attentively, he began to speak these words:

"Fortunate the age and fortunate the times called golden by the ancients, and not because gold, which in this our age of iron is so highly esteemed, could be found then with no effort, but because those who lived in that time did not know the two words thine and mine."

(Don Quixote, I, XI, 76 [translated by Edith Grossman along with all other translations below except where noted])

Although the five previous chapters in Don Quixote of La Mancha were very much a postmodernist party as far as the writing was concerned, chapters 11 through 15 highlight the characters' speeches instead. On taking note of the great quantity of acorns amassed atop the goatherds' table, for example, Don Quixote launches into an unexpected harangue that contrasts the virtues of the Golden Age with the greed of the present day (see the start of the speech above). Later on, he makes another long speech in response to a question about why he was "going about armed in that manner when the land was so peaceful" (I, XIII, 87). And Don Quixote isn't the only character making all these speeches either--diatribes against the bewitchingly beautiful shepherdess Marcela are put forth, accusing her of being guilty of causing the suicide of a shepherd who had fallen in love with her, to which Marcela herself makes an eloquent defense in turn.

In addition to the speeches, one notes an extraordinary variety of genres (songs, stories, poetry) embedded in the narrative thread as if the chapters in question were a homage to the "speech arts" in general. After repeatedly correcting the pronunciation of a goatherd busy relating the sad story of Grisóstomo and Marcela to him, for example, Don Quixote compliments the man for telling a story that "is very good" and for "tell[ing] it with a good deal of grace" (I, XII, 84). Given the emphasis on the art of narration in these chapters, it shouldn't be a surprise to learn that all kinds of wordplay accompany the speeches; in fact, one of my favorite moments has to do with the harangue Don Quixote makes about "the (dis)course of his life" [my translation] in a discourse about his life as a knight errant [note: see I, XIII, 89 in the Grossman translation and look for the line that talks about knights errants and the misfortunes they encounter "in the course of their lives"; there's actually a pun in Spanish that Grossman either overlooked or avoided in that discurso can mean speech, discourse, or a passage of time]. Elsewhere, there's an absolutely splendid example of one of Don Quixote's rhetorical strategies (a guy named Vivaldo mentions that he read something in Amadís of Gaul that contradicts DQ's opinion; DQ instantly responds, "Señor, one swallow does not a summer make" [90]).* All this plus a second pairing of literature and the funeral pyre in the scene where the shepherd Grisóstomo's laid to rest alongside the burning embers of his love poetry!

In recognition of the fact that I still haven't said anything about the ubiquitous humor to be found in these chapters, I'll leave you all with this description of Don Quixote's "lady," provided in response to the fun-loving Vivaldo's request to learn something about her "name," "kingdom," "condition," and "beauty" (I, XIII, 90-91).

Whereupon Don Quixote heaved a great sigh and said:

"I cannot declare whether my sweet enemy would be pleased or not if the world were to know that I serve her; I can only state, responding to what you so courteously ask, that her name is Dulcinea, her kingdom, Toboso, which is in La Mancha, her condition must be that of princess, at the very least, for she is my queen and lady, and her beauty is supernatural, for in it one finds the reality of all the impossible and chimerical aspects of beauty which poets attribute to their ladies: her tresses are gold, her forehead Elysian fields, her eyebrows the arches of heaven, her eyes suns, her cheeks roses, her lips coral, her teeth pearls, her neck alabaster, her bosom marble, her hands ivory, her skin white as snow, and the parts that modesty hides from human eyes are such, or so I believe and understand, that the most discerning consideration can only praise them but not compare them."

*Random reading coincidences: After transcribing that line about the swallow but before publishing this post, I came up across the exact same expression in my reading of Proust's The Captive tonight. Does anyone out there know if Cervantes invented the phrase or if it's just a proverbal expression or what? Weird!

Chapters 6 through 10 of the first part of On the Ingenious Hidalgo Don Quixote of La Mancha contain almost all of the DNA of the novel in full. DQ's books of chivalry are scrutinized (and sometimes not scrutinized at all!) by the priest and the barber before being burned for the harm they've done to their owner's mind. Don Quixote recruits Sancho Panza to serve as his squire. After the celebrated failure known as the adventure of the windmills, our protagonist engages in his first single combat as a knight errant...and is on the verge of winning the battle against "the Basque" before the narrator suddenly interrupts the story to tell us that the "true history" of Don Quixote is nothing more than a translation of an Arabic manuscript found in the Alcaná, or market street, in Toledo. One of the most intentionally intrusive chapter breaks in history!

Without knowing quite where to begin with all this, I'd like to return to the metafiction theme one more time. Although the episode dealing with the scrutiny of Don Quixote's library always makes me laugh, it's difficult to ignore the way in which Cervantes is simultaneously playful and provocative in inserting himself into the narrative. Speaking of La Galatea, published by Cervantes in the year 1585, the priest says:

"This Cervantes has been a good friend of mine for many years, and I know that he is better versed in misfortune than in verses. His book has a certain creativity; it proposes something and concludes nothing. We have to wait for the second part he has promised; perhaps with that addition it will achieve the mercy denied to it now; in the meantime, keep it locked away in your house, my friend" (I, 6, 52; note: this quote and all that follow below come from the Edith Grossman translation).

So Don Quixote owns a book by Cervantes, the same guy who's writing yet another book about the exploits of Don Quixote. OK, I see you working, Miguel! But what can we say about a work where the burning of books is described as "the death of those innocents" [46]? At least in part, Cervantes would seem to be making fun of the critical judgements pronounced by the priest and the barber. However, he also alludes to the Spanish autos-da-fé in comparing book-burning to people-burning. His sense of humor is more than a little subversive, don't you think?

Of course, Cervantes' confession about the discovery of the manuscript in Toledo is subversive for altogether different reasons. First, there are the artistic ramifications to consider. Given that the narrator "Cervantes" presents himself as the "second author of this work" in chapter 8 (64-65), what ought we to think about the first author of this work? Is it important that the work known as Don Quixote of La Mancha isthe translation of another work, one known as the History of Don Quixote of La Mancha. Written by Cide Hamete Benengeli, an Arab Historian (I, 9, 67)? Are we reading a work of fiction or a "true history" as the author so often puts it? These types of questions, perhaps a bit pedantic in and of themselves, emphasize problems of authorship in the novel. A preview: like a good postmodernist, Cervantes will exploit the situation for full comic effect throughout the length of the novel. In the second place, the choice of Toledo as the source of Don Quixote's story is inspired for historic reasons as well. During the Middle Ages, Toledo was not only the Christian capital during the Reconquest but the center of translations on the Iberian peninsula. On attributing authorship of the Quixote to an Arab historian, Cervantes is in effect shuffling the deck of his "translation" to propose a new mix of truth and lies in his distinctly Spanish story. However, it's quite an ironic twist: at the time of the writing of the novel, the Moors, like Don Quixote's books, had been kicked out of the country. Coming up soon: DQ, chapters 11-15.

On rereading Don Quixote for the first time in five years, the first thing that struck me wasn't its sense of humor (although, naturally, that was also there) but its qualities as a metafictional work par excellence. In the first chapter, for example, our protagonist supposedly loses his mind on account of his books of chivalry. In the second, Don Quixote makes his first sally as a knight errant and immediately begins to imagine how his "famous deeds" will be recounted by historians in times to come. In the third and fourth chapters, comic misunderstandings arise as a direct result of our knight's literary diet, and in the fifth, the priest and the barber (those two "great friends of Don Quixote's") talk about burning their friend's library to save him from the dangers of his books. The horror! Two preliminary questions. Is it possible that Cervantes is making fun of us, his own readers, through the character of Don Quixote? And why does Cervantes refer to himself as the "stepfather" and not the "father" of his "son" Don Quixote in the prologue? Setting these matters aside for the moment, idle reader, I'll leave you with this early nugget of nonsense from another crazed reader, our colleague Don Quixote:

"Who can doubt that in times to come, when the true history of my famous deeds comes to light, the wise man who compiles them, when he begins to recount my first sally so early in the day, will write in this manner: 'No sooner had rubicund Apollo spread over the face of the wide and spacious earth the golden strands of his beauteous hair, no sooner had diminuitive and bright-hued birds with dulcet tongues greeted in sweet, mellifluous harmony the advent of rosy dawn, who, forsaking the soft couch of her zealous consort, revealed herself to mortals through the doors and balconies of the Manchegan horizon, than the famous knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, abandoning the downy bed of idleness, mounted his famous steed, Rocinante, and commenced to ride through the ancient and illustrious countryside of Montiel.' "

Welcome back to our little Divine Comedy Readalong, amici! Will you allow me a confession? Although I'm not really sure where I got the idea, I had this longstanding notion that Purgatorio would showcase a completely different style of poem than Inferno and that Paradiso would spotlight a completely different style of poem than Purgatorio in accordance with their subject matter and themes. While that turned out to be at least partially true in regards to the first two canticles when all was said and done, it still took me a while before I could put my finger on the specific types of differences in play. For whatever this observation is worth then, suffice it to say that Purgatorio opens as a continuation of the quest narrative found in Inferno. Sans the accounts of people being buried alive, the depictions of rivers of shit, the grisly scenes of cannibalism, etc., the actual movement of the characters on their journey towards Mount Purgatory still affords Dante and Virgil plenty of opportunities to run into historical and mythical personalities on their physical and spiritual ascent. That being said, there seemed to be an increasingly evident shift in tone between the Commedia's first two canticles as time went on. Where the Inferno was nightmarishly flashy in tone, Purgatorio seemed to exude more of a subdued, even an instructive vibe--as if now that Dante had shown us the horrors of hell, it was time for him to show us the way out of it (or perhaps how to avoid it in the first place). Repeated references to both singing and weeping, the latter accompanying the expiation of sin in purgatory according to Dante's extra-biblical theology of purification, call attention to the alternately joyous and sorrowful score that's omnipresent in this second stage of the narrator's journey. I won't dwell on it here, but mention of this singing reminds me that Dante's concern with language and the poetic arts remains one of the most fascinating continuities in the poem for me. Psalms from the Bible, the works of the pagan poets, and the verses of the Provenzal troubadours all receive props in the Purgatorio, almost (and this is a big almost, of course) as if Dante were struggling to reconcile the poetic with the divine in anticipation of Renaissance humanism. Towards the end of this middle section of the Commedia, though, the angelic Beatrice enters the poem and the father-like figure of Virgil exits it. To highlight the momentousness of the occasion, Dante the poet aggressively ups the narrative ante with some startling vision poetry that pays homage to the Old Testament prophets and the Book of Revelation. Whatever you make of Dante's theology in particular or allegorical poetry requiring an exegetical interpretation in general, it's hard not to be impressed with his imagination and brio. While the visual flair of the Inferno is pretty hard to beat to my way of thinking, I have to admit that the Purgatorio might have even more to offer from a poetic or a psychological perspective. In any event, I have a couple of follow-up posts planned to touch on some issues (gender, language, W.S. Merwin) I ran out of time to mention today. Hope you'll stay tuned but will understand if you don't, ha ha! Ciao.

miércoles, 4 de agosto de 2010

Since blogging has made me obsessive about my reading out of all proportion to the limited number of comments I actually receive here, I hope you'll forgive me this rare non-review/obvious filler post about my reading plans for August. To cut right to the self-indulgent chase, I basically have a three-pronged plan of attack mapped out this month. Here it is.

#1: CERVANTES. Stu at Winstonsdad's Blog is hosting a 10-week readalong of Don Quixote.I tried to resist this on account of time concerns and whatnot, but I finally caved in when I realized that it wouldn't be any fun to sit this one out on the sidelines while blog pals Claire, Frances, and Rise among others started bombarding me with posts about DQ and Sancho Panza. While I'm already two weeks behind, this'll be a reread for me and I hope to be caught up with the rest of the gang soon. See Stu's Don Quixote--Windmills for the Mind page here or his Week Two commentary over here for more info.

#2: FRANCES: WILLIAMS & PROUST. "Book Temptress" Frances of Nonsuch Book has selected William Carlos Williams' In the American Grain for our monthly shared read with Claire, E.L. Fay, Emily, Sarah, and others to discuss on the last Friday of the month (details here). A few days later on 8/31, most of the group will be back to discuss Marcel Proust's The Captive (details here), in a Tuesday salon also hosted by the lovely Frances. Naturally, all are welcome to join us for a laid back discussion of either or both of these titles.

#3: LAT AM & IBERIAN FICTION: While I want to leave plenty of time for the Cervantes and Proust titles in particular, as usual I have a number of Latin American novels and novellas calling my name (Latin American literature is my Twilight, baby!). I just started Colombian Fernando Vallejo's 2001 El desbarrancadero, voted the tenth best Spanish-language book in the last 25 years in a recent survey. Other possible candidates, particularly since I'll be looking for some shorter fiction to read in between the chunksters, are Argentinean César Aira's Un episodio en la vida del pintor viajero [An Episode in the Life of a Landscape Painter], Guatemalan Rodrigo Rey Rosa's El cojo bueno [The Good Cripple], and Colombian Evelio Rosero's Los ejércitos [The Armies]--though Argentinean Macedonio Fernández and Peruvian Mario Vargas Llosa have an anti-novel and a novel I'd like to get to this month if at all possible. So who knows? From Spain, I'd like to read either Carmen Laforet's Nada or Carme Riera's La meitat de l'ànima, keeping with the Carmen/Carme(n) author theme, natch. All right, enough already.

P.S. I have a post about another Rodrigo Rey Rosa novel, El material humano (Anagrama, 2009), pending (i.e. unwritten, ha!). Great fucking book. Only problem is that it will be the fourth Spanish language novel in a row I've read that isn't yet available in an English translation--and the Vallejo will make that five. Quick, how many major prizes does a foreign novel have to win before it gets translated into English? A depressing state of affairs.